


Truth Happiness Lies Part 2

by mellod89



Series: Definitions Series [3]
Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Mentions of Panic Attacks, Self Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 11:36:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellod89/pseuds/mellod89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Here’s the second installment. It takes place in Tom’s POV. Warnings from the first part still apply, but there’s a bit more detail. I feel so bad for doing this to him. I want to give him a hug. I suck. Thanks again to hiddle-stoner.tumblr.com/ for betaing.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Truth Happiness Lies Part 2

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s the second installment. It takes place in Tom’s POV. Warnings from the first part still apply, but there’s a bit more detail. I feel so bad for doing this to him. I want to give him a hug. I suck. Thanks again to hiddle-stoner.tumblr.com/ for betaing.

Armed with a cup of your favorite tea, and your favorite muffin, I unlock the door and announce my presence.

“Love, I’m here.” I drop my keys into the bowl you have set up in the hallway for that very purpose. “I also brought a bit of something to help cheer you up.” You’ve been really down lately, even though you’ve tried to hide it from me, but you’re a terrible liar when it comes to your feelings. You’ve just been so stressed out lately, and you never want to talk about it. So when you suggested we spend our date night in, I jumped at the chance, knowing you wouldn’t talk about what’s been bothering you in public. I also figured that if I came with a peace offering beforehand, you’d be more willing to open up. I just hate when you won’t talk to me. I try to give you your space, but it kills me to see you hurting and not being able to do anything about it.

I call out again when you don’t immediately respond, but you still don’t answer. I’m starting to worry because I know you’re home. Your car wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. I check the kitchen, hoping that you are distracted like you usually are when you’re in the midst of cooking, but I already know before I enter the room that you won’t be there. There’s none of the usual cooking smells or the bang and clang of pots and pans. There’s no music playing, and I don’t hear you singing at the top of your lungs. I glance at your calendar and notice that for today’s date you have listed “Lunch with parents” above “Date with Tom”, and I immediately panic. Lunch dates with your parents usually end with you in tears, and the last time you came home from a run in with them, you had a panic attack.

I leave the kitchen quickly, calling out your name as I go. I go quiet, hoping to hear something from you. I hear a door close, and I immediately head to your bedroom. Upon entering, I don’t see you, but I hear your quiet sobs. I knock on your closed bathroom door, praying that you hadn’t locked it.

“Love, can I come in?” I get no response, but I try the knob anyway. It slowly gives way under my touch, and I sigh in relief. The door opens to reveal you curled up on the floor in front of the tub, body trembling, hands clenched around something.

“Love?” I murmur as I kneel in front of you. “I brought you some tea and a muffin.” I sit the cup and pastry bag down on the floor. You still don’t respond or acknowledge me. I sigh again as you sniffle. I’m at a loss for words when I glace back at your hands and stop cold. A knife. This is what you’re clinging to. This is what your parents have driven you to want. I want rage. I want them to suffer as you have suffered. I want to yell at you for not coming to me, but I can’t. I can’t leave you like this to waste away quietly. I can’t make you hurt more, so with shaking hands, I gently pry the small blade from your grip, and I set it aside. Since I opened the door, you’d grown quite, but now your tears are audible. Each gasp and cry pierces the air. You launch yourself in to my arms and cling to me like a life line. My eyes are brimming with unshed tears.

What could have driven you to this? What’s going on that’s so bad that you’d want to hurt yourself? Why won’t you talk to me? There are so many unanswered questions running through my head as I gently rock us back and forth. Time passes slowly, but you eventually pull away and sit with your chin on your knees. I’m reluctant to let you go, so I place my hand on your ankle, knowing that the gentle touch will help calm you.

“Your tea’s getting cold.” I pick up the cup and hand it to you, which you take. “It’s your favorite, cinnamon-orange.” You whisper thanks and take a sip.

“I don’t know what you were planning on doing with that knife, but it’s not worth it.”

“I know.” You sniffle. “It’s why I couldn’t do it.”

I don’t even want to know what “it” is, so I say, “You can talk to me about anything.”

“I know. I just don’t want to bother you. You’ve been so busy lately…I just don’t want to be another distraction.”

“I’ll always make time for you. You’re more important than a job. I love you. Now tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m so tired of trying to make them happy.”

I want to kill her parents.

“So don’t,” I let go of her ankle and grab one of her hands, thumb stroking her wrist.

 

“You always put yourself second, and then tell yourself you’ll only be happy once everyone else is happy, but all it does is make you miserable.” 

Whenever you talk about them, it’s to complain that they don’t agree with your life choices, and all I want to say is Screw them. It’s your life. Do what you want and don’t worry about them. It’s what I did with my dad, but I know that you won’t because you’re so sweet. You’d freely help anyone without a care to yourself. It’s why I fell in love with you, but it’s different with your parents.

 

“You don’t understand.” 

You feel obligated to them, and I don’t get it.

“Then help me to.” 

All I want is for you to be happy. I’d do anything to make that happen, so I listen. I realize that we have more in common as you talk about how you grew to love theatre, but that glimmer of happiness is dashed when you talk about how your parents neglected you. How instead of encouraging you in your creative pursuits, they brushed you off. Instead of telling you to follow your dreams, they told you to forget them. The more you speak, the more I burn with hatred for what they did to you, and my tears begin to fall. They should have cherished every part of you and they didn’t. It hurts to know that you didn’t grow up feeling loved. It hurts to know that I really didn’t understand when you complained about them. What hurts the most, though, is hearing that being with me has caused you even more pain. All I want to do is to hurt the ones that hurt you, but it’ll only hurt you more. I’m supposed to be the one to comfort and support you, but I don’t know how.

You stop speaking, and the only sound is our combined sniffles. I want to hold you, but I know you’d only refuse it. So I wait for you to acknowledge me, but you don’t. I place a finger beneath your chin, hoping that you’ll allow me to see your eyes, but they’re closed tightly. 

“Look at me,” I request.

“I can’t,” your voice cracks. “I just want to die.”

“Please?” Please don’t say that. Please let me comfort you. Please look at me… 

You reluctantly open your eyes, and immediately they widen in shock.

“Why are you crying?”

“No one should ever have to feel the way that you do. No child should ever feel like they have to sacrifice their happiness for the love of their parents. You shouldn’t have to sacrifice your happiness for the love of your family. You should be happy with no conditions or stipulations. It should be something that’s spontaneous, not dictated by the will of others, or for their benefit. It should be yours to behold. I hate that you’re going through this, and that I’m part of the reason that you’re so unhappy now. I just wish I knew what I could do to make you feel worthy of that happiness.”

As you look at me, your features soften from that of shock and hurt to that of resigned understanding. In that moment, I know what you’re going to do.

“Just hold me. Make me feel loved.”

I comply with your wishes, even though I know you want the opposite. You smell faintly of your cinnamon-orange tea and tears, and with my arms wrapped tightly around you, our breathing slows further, calming us. I know you’re anything but, but I know that you need me to be happy. You need me to feel like I’m doing something for your benefit. If that’s what you need, I’ll do it gladly, and for now, that’s enough.


End file.
